The Black Bag - Louis Joseph Vance (best reads of all time txt) 📗
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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cab wheeled smartly across Piccadilly, swung into Half Moon Street, and
thereafter made better time, darting briskly down abrupt vistas of shining
pavement, walled in by blank-visaged houses, or round two sides of one of
London’s innumerable private parks, wherein spring foliage glowed a tender
green in artificial light; now and again it crossed brilliant main arteries
of travel, and eventually emerged from a maze of backways into Oxford
Street, to hammer eastwards to Tottenham Court Road.
Constraint hung like a curtain between the two; a silence which the young
man forbore to moderate, finding more delight that he had cared (or dared)
confess to, in contemplation of the pure girlish profile so close to him.
She seemed quite unaware of him, lost in thought, large eyes sober, lips
serious that were fashioned for laughter, round little chin firm with some
occult resolution. It was not hard to fancy her nerves keyed to a high
pitch of courage and determination, nor easy to guess for what reason.
Watching always, keenly sensitive to the beauty of each salient line
betrayed by the flying lights, Kirkwood’s own consciousness lost itself in
a profitless, even a perilous labyrinth of conjecture.
The cab stopped. Both occupants came to their senses with a little start.
The girl leaned out over; the apron, recognized the house she sought in one
swift glance, testified to the recognition with a hushed exclamation,
and began to arrange her skirts. Kirkwood, unheeding her faint-hearted
protests, jumped out, interposing his cane between her skirts and the
wheel. Simultaneously he received a vivid mental photograph of the
locality.
Frognall Street proved to be one of those by-ways, a short block in
length, which, hemmed in on all sides by a meaner purlieu, has (even in
Bloomsbury!) escaped the sordid commercial eye of the keeper of furnished
lodgings, retaining jealously something of the old-time dignity and reserve
that were its pride in the days before Society swarmed upon Mayfair and
Belgravia.
Its houses loomed tall, with many windows, mostly lightless—materially
aggravating that air of isolate, cold dignity which distinguishes the
Englishman’s castle. Here and there stood one less bedraggled than
its neighbors, though all, without exception, spoke assertively of
respectability down-at-the-heel but fighting tenaciously for existence.
Some, vanguards of that imminent day when the boarding-house should reign
supreme, wore with shamefaced air placards of estate-agents, advertising
their susceptibility to sale or lease. In the company of the latter was
Number 9.
The American noted the circumstance subconsciously, at a moment when Miss
Calendar’s hand, small as a child’s, warm and compact in its white glove,
lay in his own. And then she was on the sidewalk, her face, upturned to
his, vivacious with excitement.
“You have been so kind,” she told him warmly, “that one hardly knows how to
thank you, Mr. Kirkwood.”
“I have done nothing—nothing at all,” he mumbled, disturbed by a sudden,
unreasoning alarm for her.
She passed quickly to the shelter of the pillared portico. He followed
clumsily. On the doorstep she turned, offering her hand. He took and
retained it.
“Good night,” she said.
“I’m to understand that I’m dismissed, then?” he stammered ruefully.
She evaded his eyes. “I—thank you—I have no further need—”
“You are quite sure? Won’t you believe me at your service?”
She laughed uneasily. “I’m all right now.”
“I can do nothing more? Sure?”
“Nothing. But you—you make me almost sorry I can’t impose still further
upon your good nature.”
“Please don’t hesitate …”
“Aren’t you very persistent, Mr. Kirkwood?” Her fingers moved in his;
burning with the reproof, he released them, and turned to her so woebegone
a countenance that she repented of her severity. “Don’t worry about me,
please. I am truly safe now. Some day I hope to be able to thank you
adequately. Good night!”
Her pass-key grated in the lock. Opening, the door disclosed a dark and
uninviting entry-hall, through which there breathed an air heavy with the
dank and dusty odor of untenanted rooms. Hesitating on the threshold, over
her shoulder the girl smiled kindly upon her commandeered esquire; and
stepped within.
He lifted his hat automatically. The door closed with an echoing slam. He
turned to the waiting cab, fumbling for change.
“I’ll walk,” he told the cabby, paying him off.
The hansom swept away to a tune of hammering hoofs; and quiet rested upon
the street as Kirkwood turned the nearest corner, in an unpleasant temper,
puzzled and discontented. It seemed hardly fair that he should have been
dragged into so promising an adventure, by his ears (so to put it), only to
be thus summarily called upon to write “Finis” beneath the incident.
He rounded the corner and walked half-way to the next street, coming to an
abrupt and rebellious pause by the entrance to a covered alleyway, of two
minds as to his proper course of action.
In the background of his thoughts Number 9, Frognall Street, reared its
five-story fa�ade, sinister and forbidding. He reminded himself of its
unlighted windows; of its sign, “To be let”; of the effluvia of desolation
that had saluted him when the door swung wide. A deserted house; and the
girl alone in it!—was it right for him to leave her so?
IV9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C.
The covered alleyway gave upon Quadrant Mews; or so declared a notice
painted on the dead wall of the passage.
Overhead, complaining as it swayed in the wind, hung the smirched and
weather-worn sign-board of the Hog-in-the-Pound public house; wherefrom
escaped sounds of such revelry by night as is indulged in by the British
working-man in hours of ease. At the curb in front of the house of
entertainment, dejected animals drooping between their shafts, two hansoms
stood in waiting, until such time as the lords of their destinies should
see fit to sally forth and inflict themselves upon a cab-hungry populace.
As Kirkwood turned, a third vehicle rumbled up out of the mews.
Kirkwood can close his eyes, even at this late day, and both see and hear
it all again—even as he can see the unbroken row of dingy dwellings that
lined his way back from Quadrant Mews to Frognall Street corner: all
drab and unkempt, all sporting in their fanlights the legend and lure,
“Furnished Apartments.”
For, between his curiosity about and his concern for the girl, he was being
led back to Number 9, by the nose, as it were,—hardly willingly, at best.
Profoundly stupefied by the contemplation of his own temerity, he yet
returned unfaltering. He who had for so long plumed himself upon his strict
supervision of his personal affairs and equally steadfast unconsciousness
of his neighbor’s businesses, now found himself in the very act of pushing
in where he was not wanted: as he had been advised in well-nigh as many
words. He experienced an effect of standing to one side, a witness of
his own folly, with rising wonder, unable to credit the strength of
the infatuation which was placing him so conspicuously in the way of a
snubbing.
If perchance he were to meet the girl again as she was leaving Number
9,—what then? The contingency dismayed him incredibly, in view of the fact
that it did not avail to make him pause. To the contrary he disregarded it
resolutely; mad, impertinent, justified of his unnamed apprehensions, or
simply addled,—he held on his way.
He turned up Frognall Street with the manner of one out for a leisurely
evening stroll. Simultaneously, from the farther corner, another pedestrian
debouched, into the thoroughfare—a mere moving shadow at that distance,
brother to blacker shadows that skulked in the fenced areas and unlively
entries of that poorly lighted block. The hush was something beyond belief,
when one remembered the nearness of blatant Tottenham Court Road.
Kirkwood conceived a wholly senseless curiosity about the other wayfarer.
The man was walking rapidly, heels ringing with uncouth loudness, cane
tapping the flagging at brief intervals. Both sounds ceased abruptly as
their cause turned in beneath one of the porticos. In the emphatic and
unnatural quiet that followed, Kirkwood, stepping more lightly, fancied
that another shadow followed the first, noiselessly and with furtive
stealth.
Could it be Number 9 into which they had passed? The American’s heart beat
a livelier tempo at the suggestion. If it had not been Number 9—he was
still too far away to tell—it was certainly one of the dwellings adjacent
thereunto. The improbable possibility (But why improbable?) that the girl
was being joined by her father, or by friends, annoyed him with illogical
intensity. He mended his own pace, designing to pass whichever house it
might be before the door should be closed; thought better of this, and
slowed up again, anathematizing himself with much excuse for being the
inquisitive dolt that he was.
Approaching Number 9 with laggard feet, he manufactured a desire to light
a cigarette, as a cover for his design, were he spied upon by unsuspected
eyes. Cane under arm, hands cupped to shield a vesta’s flame, he stopped
directly before the portico, turning his eyes askance to the shadowed
doorway; and made a discovery sufficiently startling to hold him spellbound
and, incidentally, to scorch his gloves before he thought to drop the
match.
The door of Number 9 stood ajar, a black interval an inch or so in width
showing between its edge and the jamb.
Suspicion and alarm set his wits a-tingle. More distinctly he recalled the
jarring bang, accompanied by the metallic click of the latch, when the girl
had shut herself in—and him out. Now, some person or persons had followed
her, neglecting the most obvious precaution of a householder. And why? Why
but because the intruders did not wish the sound of closing to be audible
to her—or those—within?
He reminded himself that it was all none of his affair, decided to pass on
and go his ways in peace, and impulsively, swinging about, marched straight
away for the unclosed door.
“‘Old’ard, guvner!”
Kirkwood halted on the cry, faltering in indecision. Should he take the
plunge, or withdraw? Synchronously he was conscious that a man’s figure
had detached itself from the shadows beneath the nearest portico and was
drawing nearer, with every indication of haste, to intercept him.
“‘Ere now, guvner, yer mykin’ a mistyke. You don’t live ‘ere.”
“How do you know?” demanded Kirkwood crisply, tightening his grip on his
stick.
Was this the second shadow he had seemed to see—the confederate of him who
had entered Number 9; a sentry to forestall interruption? If so, the fellow
lacked discretion, though his determination that the American should not
interfere was undeniable. It was with an ugly and truculent manner, if more
warily, that the man closed in.
“I knows. You clear hout, or—”
He flung out a hand with the plausible design of grasping Kirkwood by the
collar. The latter lifted his stick, deflecting the arm, and incontinently
landed his other fist forcibly on the fellow’s chest. The man reeled back,
cursing. Before he could recover Kirkwood calmly crossed the threshold,
closed the door and put his shoulder to it. In another instant, fumbling in
the darkness, he found the bolts and drove them home.
And it was done, the transformation accomplished; his inability to refrain
from interfering had encompassed his downfall, had changed a peaceable and
law-abiding alien within British shores into a busybody, a trespasser, a
misdemeanant, a—yes, for all he knew to the contrary, in the estimation of
the Law, a burglar, prime candidate for a convict’s stripes!
Breathing hard with excitement he turned and laid his back against the
panels, trembling in every muscle, terrified
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